Page 7 of Finders Reapers

Again, I wanted to joke about mycolorful personalitybecause of the array of colors, but I didn’t.

Because Charon would have shouted at me.

I didn’t like being shouted at. It gave me hives.

With gritted teeth and a face so ruddy that he looked like he was going to blow a fuse, the ferryman left the conference room with me on his heels, and I was led back through reception, and past Rome and the surly receptionist.

I tried not to pay attention, but Rome’s lips were on the receptionist’s neck, and she was panting like a dog in heat. I avoided looking at them, but I felt Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sunglasses staring after me. The heat of his gaze made my skin prickle.

Charon marched like an elephant, despite his willowy frame. He led us to the elevators on the other side of the reception and jammed his thumb against the call button even though the light had already come on.

I plastered on a bright smile. “Where are we going?” I asked. Deciding the question was harmless enough.

Charon ignored me and tapped his foot impatiently.

The elevator doors opened, and I followed him inside.

The walls were glass.

Welp.

Not a fun time for me.

As we rose through the building, I kept my eyes closed and prayed to Starbucks that the visible cables wouldn’t snap.

At least if we plummeted, it wouldn’t be to the death. Assuming Charon couldn’t die and that I couldn’t die twice.

Every time the elevator rose past a floor, the number flashed, and the dept name rolled over the screen above the numbers.

Marketing.

Finance.

HR.

Communications.

Sales.

Death Inc needed a sales dept?

We finally got off the elevator at Acquisitions and stepped into the office.

Rows and rows of desks. A breakroom. A coffee machine.

Ordinary people milling about in business casual—shudder.

Charon led me to an office at the end of the hall. He didn’t wait until I was through the door before he slammed it.

I was lucky I was incorporeal because he would have sliced me clean in half.

Charon was like a whirlwind as he opened his filing cabinet and then his bookcase.

Eventually, he gave up, sat down, and picked up the old-fashioned red phone on his desk, fiddling with the circlular dial before I heard the dial tone.

“File for Valentina Rossi.” He hung up before he got a reply.

“That’s rude, you know,” I pointed out. “You should say please.”